


trouble on my mind

by motherherbivore (Airheart)



Category: Warframe
Genre: Fortuna Spoilers, Friendship, Gen, headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 02:50:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16778137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airheart/pseuds/motherherbivore
Summary: Ticker can't be a ray of sunshine all the time





	trouble on my mind

An unsigned ping went out over the local feeds as soon as the main lift opened, and Fortuna went frosty. The Taxmen were making their rounds again.

There were two of them today, identical in their jumpsuits and brick-helmets but different enough in height that the Business could tell them apart in his peripheral. The shorter one was meaner—he kicked a mender’s toolbox over as he passed and didn’t look twice. 

They went around to all the vendors, pawing through their wares and asking abrupt questions. The Business kept a careful tab on them as they went through the hub, listening over the general comms when he could. Smokefinger had a hell of a time explaining what the Tenno were doing with his mining drills (“They seem to like the stones! I won’t question them as long as they’re purchasing my equipment...no, I haven’t the faintest idea what a Tenno would want with Venusian minerals… here comes one now, why don’t you ask him yourself?”), and Thursby trembled on his legs the whole time they were in his stall, answering their questions in a high-pitched voice. Zuud could barely contain Chatter, and they didn’t linger at her tables. 

The Business handed over a pobber floof to the delicate Warframe in front of him, then quickly signalled her away, and then the Taxmen were at his stall. They stood stiffly aside as the Warframe passed them, her low-set wings nearly brushing against the taller one’s leg. He twitched away. Their discomfort gave the Business a little pleasure.

It was quickly snuffed out as the Taxmen turned their attentions to the Business's shelves. They picked up hardware at random, turning it over in their hands like they were inspecting it before they put it haphazardly back. The Business tapped his fingers against the apron of his rig as his neat stacks of components were scattered about.

“What are these?” the tall Taxman asked, holding up a bolarola doll. 

“Toys,” the Business said coolly, “for the children.”

The Taxman tossed the doll back and took out his pocket datapad. “I’m not seeing these declared on your last cycle’s reports.” 

“I wasn’t selling then. The Outworlders have taken a shining to them. Think of them as… souvenirs.”

He watched as the Taxmen struggled to find some infraction, couldn’t, then went back to examining the Business’s shelves. 

“Director Anyo wants your full expense report for the cycle,” the tall one said at last. The Business inclined his head.

“Certainly. I’ll have it ready and sent by tomorrow morning,” he said.

“You’ll have it ready before you go home tonight,” said the other curtly. “And a thorough catalog of your inventory.”

The Business’s organic jaw clenched. His rig stayed impassive.

“Right,” he said. 

The taller Taxman picked up a muon battery, inspected it needlessly, then dropped it back on the table with a clatter.

“Carry on,” he said then, and the two of them left. The Business waited until they were out of sight before he shook his head.

“Muckers,” he whispered to himself, and got started straightening his displays.

Upstairs, he heard Ticker’s voice faintly, rising and falling like a song. Talking to the Taxmen, no doubt. The Business restacked his muon batteries, tucking two away to give to the young father that lived three units down from him. He had four Tenno logged as out on the Vallis today—one of them at least would bring him some servofish to replace the stock before it was missed. 

Something on the floor above him crashed. There were raised voices, a kubrow’s bark, then another, louder crash, and the Business rushed to the lift. A kubrow leapt down from the platform and dashed past him, followed closely by its owner. The Business hit the lift button.

He’d expected—feared—worse. Ticker’s display board was overturned, and the contents of several boxes were strewn across the floor. The Warframes had scattered, as the Business had hoped—their presence already made Nef uneasy, and they would only make things worse for Ticker if they stayed. He saw a few of them still: silent guardians perched in the rafters across the water, watching. Steel glinted in their hands.

Ticker stood in the middle of the mess, fists clenched at her sides, and the Taxmen were in front of her, provas unholstered but not turned on. The Business quickly put himself between them and her.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked. 

“Are you the owner of this shop?” the tall Taxman asked curtly. No one owns anything in Solaris except Nef Anyo.

“No,” said the Business. 

“Then this doesn’t concern you.” He waved the Business aside.

“Director Anyo wants your expense reports and a complete inventory, tonight,” the shorter Taxman told Ticker. He prodded Ticker’s chest with his prova. Ticker twitched, and the Business clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from wrapping around the Taxman’s throat. “And you’d best learn some manners for the next time we come around.”

“Whatever you say,  _ sir, _ ” Ticker bit out. The Taxmen stood there for a moment longer, their brick-helmets impassive but their provas shifting restlessly in their hands. The Business looked out across the water again, where the Warframes were still watching. Sparks of pink light sprinkled from one’s clenched fists.

Then the Taxmen holstered their provas and left, and the Business watched them until they were off the lift and out of sight, headed for Eudico’s station.

“Ticker,” the Business started then.

“I’m fine,” said Ticker. 

“I know, but you need to watch how you treat Nef’s boys—”

“I didn’t do a damn thing to them,” Ticker snapped. “All I said was they’d have to wait their turn, the Tenno were here first—didn’t muckin’ like that, did they?” 

She knelt, roughly righting a box and grabbing a handful of trinkets to toss back into it. The Business crouched down beside her to help. Neither spoke, and Ticker’s hands went on trembling in anger. There was a scrape on her elbow, a cut from a metal corner higher up on her arm, dotted with blood. The Taxmen must have pushed her. Nef had taken to sending his rougher men for inspections since the Tenno came. The Business wondered how long it would be before there was blood on Fortuna’s floor again.

They were nearly done when the hum of the lift made them both look up. A Warframe was at the shop’s open-air entrance, all shining white metal and elegant gold antlers. A loyal kavat sat primly beside it. The Tenno inside didn’t speak—they so rarely did—but their Warframe inclined its head. 

“Oh, you missed the show, Stardust,” Ticker said, a little too loudly, sitting back on her heels and putting her hands on her hips. “It was quite the ruckus. Maybe we could’ve used you. Nothing says rebellion like slaughtering a couple Taxmen right on my doorstep, right, Busy?” 

The Business was silent. The Warframe just stood there, and Ticker shook her head, her shoulders falling.

“Sorry, Stardust,” she said. “Shop’s closed. Both of them. Ticker needs a rest. Come back tomorrow, love, I’m sure I’ll have something for you by morning.”

The kavat chirred, and the Warframe bowed to Ticker, then the Business before it turned and left. 

Ticker tossed a last old-model hand drill into its box, then slumped backwards against the steel wall. 

“Okay,” she said, “maybe I called one of them a stupid mucker.”

The Business settled down next to her. 

“You shouldn’t have said that,” he said. 

“No need to tell me, Busy darling. My interest rates will double and compound for the next year, I expect.”

The Business thought for a moment. “You’re forty now?”

“Give or take a year. I lost count out on the Vallis. And no way in hell am I going to pay for a birth certificate review. I’m barely scraping by as it is—haven’t paid off my rig, and I’ve still got six years on Mama’s last debt.” Ticker hugged herself, shaking her head. “Think they’ll take my arms or legs first, Busy? I’d rather lose the legs, I think. Ticker could work a peg leg, or even a MOA look like Thursby.” She shivered.

“Nef agreed to stop repossessions,” the Business reminded her.

“Since when has Nef ever kept a promise?”

“Since we have Tenno on our side.”

Ticker shook her head. “They'll think of something worse,” she said.

“Enough of that,” said the Business, like he wasn't afraid of exactly that. “You’re old enough to apply for forgiveness on your mother's debt. Two, maybe three percent if you wait long enough for Nef to forget whatever his boys tell him tonight.” He reached over and patted Ticker’s leg. “We’ll figure something out.”

Ticker didn’t reply. A silent Ticker was a sobering sight—she used to talk more than Thursby. The Business didn’t know her real name; they’d been calling her Ticker for a while before he came to Fortuna— _ a real tick-talker, that one _ , they’d said—and she had been fourteen then. Seventeen when she got her rig, twenty-two when her mother passed. The Business remembered pitching in for her nutrient tanks the week after that, and giving her a particularly docile virmink to hold in her lap when the repo squad came for her mother’s rig and other cybernetics. Ticker had talked the whole time. 

She was quiet now, her rig dark, her hands slack in her lap. Seeing her so still made the Business’s chest ache like it would fall apart. He moved his hand to cover Ticker’s, squeezing it lightly, letting her know that he was still there. After a moment, she turned her hand and intertwined their fingers.

“You’re one of the good ones, Busy,” she said. 

They sat there together until the grinding rattle of the main lift announced the return of Tenno from the Vallis. Ticker stood and helped the Business to his feet, both of them groaning as they heard his knees audibly crack.

“Is that what I have to look forward to in twenty-five years?” Ticker asked. The usual lilt was back in her voice. “Popcorn in my joints and an early bedtime?”

“I’ve only got twenty-four years on you,” said the Business, “and nine o’clock is  _ not  _ early. But crackling joints? Shoddy nutrient processors? Yes.”

“At least I’ll still have my sparkling personality,” said Ticker. She clapped the Business on the shoulder, paused, then drew him into a quick hug. “Thanks, Busy. I don’t say it enough.”

“You don’t need to,” said the Business. He hugged her back. Their rigs clanked and scraped together awkwardly, but they held each other tight. “I know.”   
  



End file.
